


ataraxia

by Beauvoyr



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Light Angst, Lucis Prince Ravus, Lucis Princess Lunafreya, Niflheim Prince Noctis, Oracle Protagonist, Self-Indulgent, Tragedy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauvoyr/pseuds/Beauvoyr
Summary: ἀταραξία|calmness untroubled by mental or emotional disquietPrince Noctis of Niflheim returns from annexing Tenebrae with his spoils of war: The Oracle and the Princess of Tenebrae.





	1. evanescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The metal bars are thick and cold on your fingertips.

“This is your new home,” says Noctis inconsequentially, gesturing around the cage as though it is the normalcy in Niflheim to proclaim cages are homes for humans, not animals.

Comparing the bars to your fingers, it is easy enough to say three of yours is equivalent to one solid thickness. You know there is no hope in sawing through these metal bits, and that alone splashes cold water in the embers of your fighting spirit. They remain unbending even in your tightest grasp, and you know full well that by the time the one Chosen by the Stars comes to rescue you, you will have memorised the texture, ridges and indents of all 247 bars separating your space and his.

“What will become of Tenebrae?” you dare yourself to murmur under your breath, watching how the prince lifts his steely eyes to meet yours.

“Why does it matter,” he replies, a tone always too impersonal, always too detached, with a smile that has a bit of teeth to it. “Tenebrae’s already gone.”

* * *

Stories of Prince Noctis of Niflheim were as common as the sylleblossoms in your backyard. How the prince in his jagged black armour slew allies and foes alike, making him a figure whose respect is earned out of fear than honour. He learnt the art of war at the age of three, debuted on the battlefield at the age of twelve, and had drawn a bloodied line of victories ever since. When he came for hushed, tranquil Tenebrae with his army of MTs in that dark dropship emblazoned in Niflheim scarlet, you knew he’d paint a line here as though he merely played connect-the-dots with the continents.

Mother lay in red amidst the blue sylleblossoms, and father’s last scream escorted you to Noctis’ cold, awaiting hands.

* * *

There is no sense of time where you are.

You know it is on purpose, for Noctis wants to slowly deprive you of your sensory stimuli how one deprives fish of oxygen. It is simply one of the many games he plays to pass his time before he claims another piece of Lucis on another day. Galahd, Caem, Ravatogh, these are some of the names of the chess pieces on Noctis’ chessboard, amassing an army of white pawns in a pile of black ones. Should boredom seize him, he only needs to lift a rook and set it in a square to mark his territory like he kindly demonstrated with Tenebrae.

In his room, there are no windows for sunlight to penetrate. With no sunlight, you know nothing of the outside world and you’ll soon feel time slipping from your hand no matter how hard you grasped. The last sliver of sun you saw fractured on Noctis’ face when he stood at the edge of the dropship closing in on itself. And then it was black, the colour Niflheim worshipped.

It is true, for Niflheim’s prince bore the colour all over him.

When he removed his heavy headgear that distorted his voice, for a moment, you allowed childlike curiosity to manifest with a frown. You’ve certainly heard tales of the _Daemon Prince_ and how he singlehandedly slaughtered Shiva, bringing forth an everlasting chill over Ghorovas Rift as her icy corpse serves as warning for all the other Astrals to heed. But you’ve never expected your eyes to trace the arrogant slant of his lips stemming from years and years of unbroken victories, just the barest kiss of pink over skin too pale, too delicate to belong to a cruel conqueror like him. If those blue eyes aren’t narrowed, aren’t coagulated by blood, you thought he would’ve appeared much kinder for his age.

Noctis unclasps his bracer and it lands on his desk with a dull thunk. The disordered mess of his black hair from the helmet suits him. “See something you like?”

You fold your hands over your lap, taking in how he sheds his armour to reveal a clean cut body of lean muscles under fine metal. “You’re young,” you say, stating the obvious, to which he returns with an amused smirk.

“Really?” he says almost conversationally, leaning his weight against his ornate desk, fingers splayed over his helmet. “My dad thinks I’m old enough to give him two grandkids.”

“Aren’t all parents like that?” you muse as mother squats in her private garden of Lucian lilies and starts naming all the flowers after her future grandkids, giddy with thoughts of your marriage if Niflheim hadn’t senselessly killed her.

Noctis says nothing. He doesn’t need to say anything at all when a smile travels across sealed lips, guiltless even when he ended father in half.

* * *

In Tenebrae, with moist earth between your toes, wild greeneries aging with grace under the mothering sun, air dense with an aftertaste of rain, your hands are dirty and smudged brown. Marbled moss of the late Oracles stand tall with the trees, their gossamer veils frozen in time by the expert hands of a carver who’s learnt how to bend stones into silks. You hoped to be someone like that too, with your dirt-caked fingernails and a fistful of musty fertiliser, tending to a patch of sylles sickened by pests. Someone whose hands can nurture life even in the most resilient of hearts.

In Niflheim, you have no purpose other than to remain as what you are: A trophy of war.

You suppose, to an extent, that is why Noctis has you on display for his eyes and his eyes only. In a cage, like an endangered species in an ecosystem too brutal to sustain survivability, you are paraded on a pedestal – the bed – for him to enjoy. He _looks_ , but he does not _touch_ , yet your skin prickles with the hungering want in his eyes, shadowed only by his bangs. He is free to look all he wants from his side of the room, while you are left vulnerable, exposed, with no pretence to privacy from his burning stare, having nowhere left to hide.

His boots are a heavy sound when he approaches you, stopping scant inches from the bars keeping you safe.

You dare not touch him with your hands, for you know you cannot grow anything when he has no heart to begin with.

* * *

Weeks ago, the Chosen King and his sister came in a royal entourage. Dressed in the finest Lucian whites, the grand Nox Fleuret procession sheltered from the glittering Tenebraean sun under laced white parasols. All fourteen of them in two straight lines, looking like the dashes painted on roads. You remember laughing atop the steps with mother and father chiding you by your sides with _you shouldn’t laugh at your would-be husband_ and you, as Ravus lifted his chin and gifted you a smile most beautiful, most dazzling, whispered fondly to your parents, _why shouldn’t I laugh at my would-be husband for being the poor fool who has to marry me?_

“Your poor fool,” says Noctis, his gloved hand coming to settle on your shoulder with a warning squeeze, “is currently setting off on a journey to get all the Astrals to help him out.” His other hand, one that is not gloved, cups your cheek to tip your head, dominating your vision. The calluses on his hand are rough, the mark of a man made on battlegrounds. “Gotta pity that guy, the Astrals are not gonna wake up for him unless you’re around.”

You had been sitting on the edge of your bed, reading the lines on your palm. It is the only thing you could read, for Noctis gave you no books to pass the time. “He’ll come,” you say, Noctis’ hand moving with every word from your lips. “The prophecy does not lie.”

The devastating beauty gives an impassionate smile that is almost sympathetic at the longing in your syllables. “You just don’t know when to give up, do you?”

“No,” you say, and it is the truth. The Astrals have promised you that Ravus will be the last light to eradicate all darkness from Eos, and it is your duty to see him through his task. Your kidnapping served as a strategic manoeuvre meant to thwart his progress, but Ravus will find another way to reach you. You know he will.

—only, Noctis looks at you with so much of pity, it makes you wonder what he knows that you don’t.

* * *

Two sets of bed, one for you, one for him, always unmade, in two opposite ends of the room. When he isn’t killing, he sleeps. Temporary lapses of peace, you tell yourself, grateful for all the innocent blood unshed in the hours spanning his rest. He tosses and turns on his bed, rucking black silks, restless legs kicking and curling. _What is he fighting_ , you wonder. _Nightmares_? Oh, what a silly thought; isn’t he nightmare himself?

There are no maids uprighting the mess Noctis makes on his desk whenever he flicks through pages of reports he occasionally brings with him. If you knew him any better, you’d daresay he’s _bored_ of them. What’s the use of pages and pages of elaborate script detailing all the skirmishes in Lucian border when he knows it will all tally up to his perfect victory in the end? You can’t say you’re pleased with yourself for thinking in such a way, but the lines on your hands are unchanging and you’ve grown _restless_ studying Ravus’ fate, wondering if his name is on the documents and if he’s the one responsible for the mess Noctis is reading.

At the exact same moment, black lashes flutter and you find yourself a captive subjected under the intense scrutiny of his hooded eyes.

You don’t look away; you _won’t_ look away. As childish as it is, you won’t let this end in cowardice, even if it is a staring contest for two. You’ve already lost the battle for Tenebrae so what else do you have to lose when you have nothing left in your hands? Perhaps Noctis catches on your thoughts, for he’s willing to humour you in this game, lowering his report just so you’d follow the hypnotic shift of his smile into a smirk. Pinpricks of unease settle on your nape just as soon as the ashen grey in his eyes spark blue, the very shade of the sylleblossoms you grew.

Shadows from where the chandelier fails to light are too harsh a colour on Noctis, yet strangely, it suits what he is. He isn’t the righteous whiteness Ravus wears. He’d sully the purity with his sinful hands. Black alone suits him, eternal blackness of his hair and his name, _Noctis_ of the night. You hate it.

He is the first one to break the brittle silence, an eyebrow mildly arched. “You’re a funny one, Oracle.”

Ravus called you many things before, things that were the norm between two soon-to-be-wedded lovers: Lovely, adorable, intelligent, witty—and then there were _certain_ nicknames you were less fond of: Foolhardy, obstinate, sulky, _pick-up-the-phone-when-I-call-you-fool._ Noctis’ ‘funny’ doesn’t match up to any of it, not that you were imprudently cracking a joke on enemy grounds.

Still, you try on a smile anyway, just for the sake of spiting him. “I see.”

His eyes are always bright when he’s about to say something cruel. “I like that.”

“That?” You feign polite indifference at his words.

Noctis knows what you’re doing, knows you’re only faking things just to tolerate his presence to live through another day, not that you’re making extra effort to hide the poisoned sugar in your tone. Yet he indulges you as one would a pet, like rubbing the belly of a cat and knowing when a swipe of its claws would come and he’d still do it over and over and over again, just to indulge you the way he wants.

“That look of defeat you’re wearing right now,” Noctis says, smirk turning lazy at the corners, head tipped back. “That’s addictive. _You’re_ addictive.”

There is a different lustre in his eyes that has you conceding his victory, for you’re sure you can’t win against the sickness swelling your stomach. 

Ravus never called you that either.


	2. beguile

Once, Ravus looked at you. Said: “Do you remember how we first met?”

You laugh in his face at the sentimentality of it all. Ravus, indulging in intoxicating melancholy? Completely unheard of. Clearly, his uptight expression tells you he appreciates none of your gloriously wide-mouthed barking laugh, though it’s remedied with a bat of your hand. “Yeah I do, Your _Highness_ ,” you tease, seizing him in a quick flush that you’re certain if you bring it up five years later, he’ll blame it on the harsh Tenebraean sun as always. “How could I forget?”

Yes, how could you forget the resplendence of the Oracle’s ascension? All sublime whiteness promenading the red carpet stretched all the way to the Citadel, upholding mother’s trident, knowing this is the duty of your predecessors, and you are the ending of the Oracles. The Crown Prince stands at the pinnacle with the king, watching you watching him. There will come a time where darkness will consume the stars and the King of Kings will extinguish his life to light up the skies once more. The Astrals spoke his name when you were three, and you reverently recited Ravus Nox Fleuret under your breath.

"Then, you should remember this as well,” Ravus spoke after a while, and drew your chin closer when he sealed what he promised the Astrals with his lips on yours.

Here, distant memories of your first kiss are nothing more than glorified film reels unravelling only for you, the lone occupant of this rundown cinema. It was a clumsy kiss slobbering too much saliva whilst smouldering passion substituted utterly lacking finesse and technique. What seems to be your first kiss at 18 seems to be Ravus’ own at 26. A regal man like him surely wouldn’t make a habit of playing tonsil hockey senselessly, you figured—though in some ignoble parts of your heart, you are glad you trained with him to perfect what he has become today: A serial kisser with a habit of using his tongue to shut you up.

But here, _here_ where the bars are behind your back, there are no kisses keeping you company. None of Ravus’ cutting tongue shredding your arguments both verbally and physically, sweet summer days ensconced in his broad frame as he bends just so your tiptoed kiss reaches his lips. _Here_ , Noctis makes a mockery of his gallantry by tossing aside all forms of reports he brings with him. Down on the table they go, never to be picked up and never to be read by his own two eyes to ascertain what daring feats Ravus and his royal entourage were up to.

Hands folded atop one another on your lap, your lips acquire a mocking twist. “Shouldn’t you be reading those reports? Or are you simply afraid to see the damage he’s wreaked upon your bases?”

As usual, Noctis presents you a double-edged smile. This time around, there is a bitter bite in it. “You must be really bored to suggest something like that to me. What, you wanna do the reading for me?”

You simper even as you educate the painfully ignorant prince in case years on the battlefield had him forgetting the finer aspects of becoming a human being. “One must not complain about their circumstances, and strive to make the best out of situation. You gave me little liberty in the first place, not that I can demand more as a prisoner.” His smile turns caustic in the corners, and you deny yourself none of the gratifying internal celebration when you venture further. “At least there will be something for me to read, even if they are boring reports to you.”

Noctis’ laughter comes with a hiss, edged with another smile you couldn’t fathom. “You’re always so weirdly gifted with your tongue, Oracle.” Fingers splay over his cheek as he cups his chin, accentuating the light in his bright blue eyes. “All right, you won me over with your pretty words.” Chin dipping agreeingly, he removes himself from the table. “Let’s come to a truce, yeah?”

The curl of your lips is cruel. “Name your terms, Noctis of Niflheim.”

Keys are produced from the inner trappings of his armour, a hard-to-reach place just to make sure it doesn’t fall into wrong hands. A hollow _clack_ and excessive creaking of the cage later, Noctis invades your personal space how he invaded Tenebrae: With unrelenting tenacity. The mattress sags with the weight of his armour as he takes his place by your side, fanning sheaves bearing CONFIDENTIAL and CONFIDENTIAL and CONFIDENTIAL all over his thighs. An enemy he may be, yet he makes moving in bulky armour seem all effortless grace and elegance. He is far stronger than what he presents himself to you, a wayward prince lacking an adult’s attention span. The belated realisation toys with your feelings.

You must take care not to forget he is the master of your new fate.

“Because I’m such a thoughtful guy,” says Noctis without an ounce of exaggeration, sorting the stapled stacks into sections, “I’m giving you something to do.” At this, he stops. And gives you a look bordering on fondness. “You get to read these reports aloud to me, and I get to decide what to do with it. It’s a win-win situation. You won’t get bored in here, you know what Ravus is up to, and I…” he trails off almost like he’s giving careful consideration to the matter, but his offhanded shrug belies his intention, “ _well_ , I guess it’ll make things easier for me to know his whereabouts just in case I wanna drop by to say hi.”

Does he take you for a fool? He certainly does, doesn’t he?

Noctis props his cheek with his hand like a lover listening to his beloved. Eyes are sultry and hooded, preying on your reactions. Unaffected, the carefree joy of a prince whose sole job is to spill blood. He _kills_ every life you save— _every_ quaking elderly whose bony hands rattle with Gil as they scrounged up what they afforded as a token of gratitude to the Oracle for your service in healing the needy; _every_ weeping child whose leg, chest, head spotted from the Scourge; every _single_ one of Eos’ denizens queuing for three hours straight under the blistering heat just so they could chant your _name_ , just so they could catch a glimpse of _hope,_ just so they’d still believe in the _future._

Yet you guard yourself from advertising your thoughts.

A princess by birth, the Oracle for your title, you are a dignified captive.

You will _neither_ pleasure him with your tears, nor with your snarls.

“When you do meet him,” you say, each word enunciated with the precision of a sniper, “please send my Ravus—“

“ _Your_ Ravus?” Noctis cuts you off with a forced quirk to his lips.

“Mine,” you echo solemnly, “and he will be mine forevermore.”

That is what you promised him, the same way he promised you were his, the same way the Astrals promised he would come to your rescue.

And, quite as easily as Ramuh calling thunderstorms to Duscae, the mood changes. Noctis exhales long and slow, and his next draw of breath leaves you holding your own.

“…what a lucky guy, I’d _kill_ to be him.”

* * *

 Days come and go, not that you had any means of indication to the passing of the day. As with everything else gradually introduced in your new life, assumption is the key to living. Following your circadian rhythm religiously, awaking and sleeping at set hours your body is accustomed to, you established an erratic rhythm of sorts. Not perfect, but it’s a start. A human’s adaptability is an amazing thing.

MTs hobbling into his office bearing trays of the Imperials’ meals are a common sight. Noctis must’ve thought them harmless enough to bring your meal for the assumed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Its index finger rolls back to unveil a skeleton key, unlocking your cage with ease. Tray is set on the bed, and door is locked once more. You are disinclined to acknowledge their presence, not that they hold half of the emotions needed to process hurt, anger, or resentment at your unjust treatment. If not, they surely would’ve stopped themselves the moment they overran Tenebrae and set fire to your flowering fields, no?

The hollow _clack_ to your cage resounds three times an assumed day, and you enjoy what’s left of your years with every sip of creamy broth, tender tendons snapping between your teeth, savouring the spices seasoning a slab of meat. As much as it shames you to admit, you are but a human underneath all the gossamer veils of an Oracle. Humans _always_ enjoy a good meal, especially when one is bored out of their wits and eating is their only reprieve.

A prisoner you are, but it seems Noctis never once forgot your royal bearing, lavishing you in fineries fitting for a princess. And if he weren’t your captor, you would have appreciated him on a deeper note.

When Ravus comes, and he surely will, rather than having him worrying about your emaciated figure, you’d prefer having him concentrating on grinding Noctis into a bloodied pulp under his heel. 

* * *

 “Oh. So you are the one I was cooking for.”

You know nothing of this man but the light in his eye suggests he knows everything of you. _Eye,_ you said, not eyes, for the other is reminiscent of the Disc of Cauthess, a bitten maw all angry edges and jagged lines scoring his left. One-eyed he may be, yet he’s seen more than those with two. His intrusion has you sitting upright just to shake off the pinpricks jutting your spine. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

“Ah, my apologies, Oracle. I am Ignis Scientia, Noct’s advisor on the dotted line—though I am unofficially his caretaker,” he introduces himself with a slight bow, all polished features of leather shoes and three-piece ensemble. His charming smile complements his high cheekbones, and you find it infectious enough to afford yourself a smile, however guarded it is. “While I normally cook for Noct, lately I find myself cooking for two. Imagine my surprise when he casually brought up the matter over evening tea that he _kidnapped_ the Princess of Tenebrae as though it could be likened to picking Ulwaat berries from your neighbour’s fence.”

You would’ve laughed alongside his small chuckling, but it’s no laughing matter. You _are_ the victim of the unfortunate circumstance, and no, stealing Ulwaat berries isn’t the same as holding a princess hostage. That is a declaration of war, and it is a declaration Ravus is willing to rise to.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Scientia,” you meet his propriety with your own, rising from your seat on the bed as his eye follows your gait. The 197th bar separating you and him is cold under your touch, and you hope it reminds him of your prisonlike predicament. “Thank you for cooking all of my meals, they’re the only part of the day I look forward to. Well,” you stop yourself short, “each _assumed_ day.”

Unlike Noctis, his retainer smiles with candour at your flattery. He is an Imperial despite being ill-placed within the confines of these high walls and dark décor. “Please, just Ignis is fine,” he corrects you softly, eating up the meters separating you and him. Standing this close, his greying eye is a thunderstorm looming in the horizon. You wonder what colour it was before this. “However, I’m afraid it is I who owe you my gratitude, Oracle. I’ve never seen Noct quite like this. So thank _you_ for being here.”

You do not want to know.

You do not wish to know anything about him.

What else do you have to know about him anyway, other than the cold hard fact that mother and father are both rotting at the entrance of the manor?

Yet the kind look on Ignis’ face itches your curiosity, and you hate yourself for starving for contact, seeking it from this stranger who served Noctis. Fingers over the bar tighten. “Like what?”

“Like he’s alive,” says Ignis like _alive_ breathes meaning into the simplicity of the word. “It isn’t my place to say much but I have never seen him quite taken with something else other than matters of the war and such.” Arms crossed over his chest, one of his gloved hands is actively drawing abstracts in the air. “I hadn’t the slightest idea why such abrupt change happened to him. Now, I can _see_ why.”

Are you a pet project? For the wayward prince to experiment and experience life through another being, like a child playing house with their dolls just to emulate everyday conversation. To be clothed, to be fed, to be coddled. To talk, to listen, to learn. To keep him company.

To Noctis, you might as well be.

Your hand empties the bar and settles by your side where Ignis couldn’t see the fist it assumes. “…he is alive only because he took mine.”

Strangely, the smile never left the advisor. Neither did the light in his thunderstorm grey. He only procures a broad eyepatch from his breast pocket, Niflheim silver engraved on black brocade, and secures it over his scar with the expertise of a man who’s been doing it all his life. Carrying himself with the dignity of a broken man rebuilt anew, he meets you right in the eye. Only then you realise you mistook his callousness for candour.

“As he did with many others,” Ignis breathes his farewell, and parts with a bow.

* * *

 You are not a toy. You are not a pet. You are not a project. You refuse to let your life be penned by a man whose actions remain unforgiven. He thinks you know nothing of the fleeting looks thrown over his pauldron, none too discreet. In and out he goes, from his bedroom to the empire he’s building on Eos, returning rank with sweat and bangs all limp. Always, always after throwing his helmet aside, he _looks_ at you, and _looks._ Looking is never a crime, but he makes it so.

The sufferings of the Oracle are a great many, mother told you.

_And this_ , you suppose, _is simply one of it._

* * *

 A blinding flash and later, your lips acquire a sour turn. The firsts of your suffering in many more to come. “What did you just do?”

The yellow polaroid in his hands whirrs, spitting a glossy 2x3 that Noctis unconcernedly blows on. “Ever watched those black-and-white movies?”

Cradling your chin, you mull over his question. A genuine probe into your interests, or another one of his manipulative methods in picking your psyche again? You don’t know. “Not many,” you dare yourself to admit, uncrossing your leg only to cross it the other way round. “Only some.”

He’s still blowing on the picture, periodically holding it up to the light for his scrutiny, and then rinse and repeat. The echo to his mundane action would’ve bored you to death if you weren’t _already_ bored to death.

“They had scenes of people keeping pictures of their beloved when they go to war,” says Noctis, fixed on the film. After a moment’s consideration, he stops, looks at you with a misplaced fondness yet again, and shrugs before turning to his odd job of flicking and flicking away. “Kind of wanted to try it once.”

You swallow at the goosebumps prickling your nape. You’re certain the twitch born on the corner of your lips signifies nothing good.

Ravus never indulged in sentimentalities unbefitting a king, snapping pictures and the like. Never immortalised a moment’s peace with you and him on Fenestala’s patio, sipping tea between bites of cloudy choux puffs and buttonlike macarons. Not a man who’d spare thirty seconds for a selfie, ever so sullen at your poisoned tongue coaxing his mouth open. Kisses are bribes for pictures, the clandestine currency traded between Tenebrae and Lucis. Kisses are the only way for the scowling prince to grudgingly accept your one-sided offer. Kisses are more than enough to leave you dazzled for days and more days after he leaves and never to return for months and more months.

A man like him has no need for pictures.

He just calls you whenever he thinks of you.

And begins every conversation with, “I miss you.”

You run your fingers over silken sheets, skittering them uphill and downhill, trying to remember the texture of his skin. Ravus was warm, an embrace so suffocating yet so comforting, fitting you perfectly in every crook of your soul. Distance matters little when you could _feel_ him with you if you searched in your _cor cordium._ The heart of your heart.

Noctis had been staring at you, and you are unafraid to hold his gaze. Holding your chin parallel to the ground, your answer comes just as easily. “I am not your beloved.”

Except—your answer has Noctis gifting you an affected smile, tiny as a nick. He is achingly beautiful, even if he is a mess. “But you’re the closest I could get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right, who’s rooting for ravus and who’s rooting for noctis?

**Author's Note:**

> ~~(whispers) why am i doing this~~


End file.
